


Azalea

by IFrozeYourCookie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Confusion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, I'm just in the mood, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nice Mary Morstan, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Requited Unrequited Love, She slaps some sense in these idiots, Sherlock is a Mess, So pain's the answer, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-31 08:09:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IFrozeYourCookie/pseuds/IFrozeYourCookie
Summary: [Azalea flowers; "take care of yourself for me"]Two years away, and Sherlock came waltzing back in John's life. But neither of them had expected Mary Morstan to be in the equation.For Sherlock, his resurrection is a sign of love. For John, Mary being there for him in those two years is love, and not being the fool in Sherlock's game like his faked death. They thought their interpretations of affection differs too much, but really, everything they did before the fall just proves otherwise. And yet, for John, the memories fell with Sherlock from the rooftop.





	1. Chapter 1

"Two years. Two- You let me grieve for two years," John spoke, in a slow, rage filled voice. It falters, but not out of fear, but pure, _pure_ , disbelief. Time seemed to speed up afterwards, and the whole restaurant was reduced to a loud mess. Half of them are pulling John away from Sherlock that was pushed on the floor, and only a few bothered checking up on Sherlock. Guess a raging moustached man is more priority than the man groaning on the floor out of surpressed pain. None of the discussions that came after went well, anyway. Sherlock first was gifted with a split lip, and now a bloody nose. What went wrong? For Sherlock, it's Mary. For John, it's Sherlock.

"I said sorry, didn't I?" Sherlock muttered and muffled through the tissue he had held to his nose. The Glassgow kiss wasn't at all necessary, personally. But then again, John is a hot headed man. But Sherlock just don't get it. What's there to be mad about. He explained the gist of the plan, informed of the terrorist attack and said sorry.   
"Sorry isn't enough, Sherlock. Not for letting me believe you're dead for two years," the betrayal just displayed so clearly in both his eyes and his tone. John was clenching his fists repeatedly, just as his way of trying to hold back a punch.  
Sherlock's response was merely a plea, a desperate attempt to tell John that it's okay now. "But I'm back now. I heard you-you wanted me to not be dead and now I'm here! What's the fuss? We can just go back to the lives we left behind," he said, grinning like a child that wanted to prove he had done a project perfectly. And he did, because he's back to his Boswell. To hell the scars and trauma. John always makes things better. Right? 

John took a pause, can't seem to believe what he is hearing. Sherlock had got to be kidding him.  
"Then those lives can stay behind. I have Mary now. She's here for me, and you never did," John stepped forward slowly, his index finger just pushing at Sherlock's chest. If he were to lose control, he wouldn't give a single damn if his finger pierced the skin and damaged his heart-if he even have one.  
Sherlock's smile started to go away, but the slight upturn of his lips were still present from the little hope he have left. He can fix this.   
"But it's always the two of us against the rest of the world, right? You had her because you wanted to overcome grief. You don't have to anymore! Just come back to 221B and I can make up for the two years". It's humiliating for Sherlock to beg like this, but in his mind, he's desperate. He had paved the way through torture and dirt, to keep the people he loved safe. And he made sure he survived to go back to John. _His_ John. But, at this point he doubt if John is even his anymore. Or if they were the same person.  
"She's not an object I used to forget you, Sherlock! I _genuinely_ love her. I was about to propose to that woman and make her my wife and you ruined that, you know that?"  
"I-I don't understand. John, but we-" he stuttered, uncommon for Sherlock, but that wasn't in John's attention at the moment. Why does it matter?  
"Of course you don't understand! You have _never_ been in love!" those words just spilled itself out of John's mouth, no second thoughts and from the looks of it, no regrets either.

For a man that was seen as emotionless and of the sorts, him being shocked by those words would be unexpected. But that was what happened. He took a small step back, taken aback by the exclamation. Jaws clenched and voice caught in his throat, finding nothing to counter those words for a few seconds. All sense of time seemed to malfunctioned when he felt that time just froze itself, but his heart was beating fast, he could hear it in his ear. And god forbid, inhaling air suddenly became the hardest thing to do. His body now stiff, all the scars and wounds ache so much and the desire to scratch it till it bleed again was strong.

The change of expression was noticeable. Even someone other than John would see it. It was quick, but clear-hurt, betrayal and pure sadness. And yet the doctor didn't want to comfort the detective, thinking that's what he deserved. Giving a taste of his own medicine.  
"I have," Sherlock said in a broken voice, barely coming out of his throat from the tears he's trying to swallow back.  
"Stop trying to win the argument,"  
"I've been in love, with you," and he still does. He had to phrase and say it carefully, as if it would affect the response he'll get. People would think John would stop, take a pause when the realization kicks in and all is relieved, but not quite. Not every chapter have a good ending.  
"You don't even understand how it works," he huffed a breath, finding the idea amusing.  
"I do"  
"You don't. Now shut up. I have a woman to go back to, and you have the whole of London to impress again. People coming to your door and complimenting you for everything. That's heaven for you isn't it?" John gave a mocking smile, insincere. Sherlock had to zip his own mouth to not reply to that, to not say how heaven isn't heaven for him without John. But the little hope he had earlier was completely obliterated by a few phrases of words from the man he cared too much for. But if it's not reciprocated, what's the point of trying again?

John didn't wait for Sherlock's response, if he had any, and just went to Mary who was waiting in the cab for him. Mary looked forlorn when she saw how from the facial expressions that nothing had went well. She knew how they were two halves of each other, and to see things just spiral down hurts, even for her as an outside eye. John seemed unbothered when he sat down beside Mary, and that had her opening up a conversation out of curiosity.  
"I think you went too hard on him,"  
"No. I just put him back in his place,"  
"Which is?" she asked, not satisfied with how he handles the situation. But she didn't know what she had expected, honestly, because she wasn't given an answer. All he gave was a quick glare. It was clear that the conversation found it's full stop for the night. She turned to the back car window, seeing Sherlock eyeing the cab driving away. And he didn't look anything like what she saw from the restaurant or even before in the papers. He looked hollow. Just within a few seconds of looking back at the lanky man, he just turned around, walking in slow steps to the opposite direction, head low and chest heaving. She saw the side of Sherlock that John always refused to believe-the vulnerable child starving of affection, but only got dust.


	2. Chapter 2

The last thing Sherlock expected to see looking at him from the cab window was John, but it was his partner, Mary. John didn't even took a second glance. Was he really that repulsed by him? He pulled his hand away from his nose, assuming it's not bleeding anymore before he walked opposite to where the cab drove off to. Probably should just sniff in the night air and think about everything. From what and how John responded to his return, it made him think if coming back to London was a mistake. If Mycroft saving him after the last thread of Moriarty's network was a mistake. Mycroft did warn him that it's possible for John to not welcome him back, and as much as he hated to admit his brother's preminition was right, he was, in every way, right. If John, the person he focused on coming back for amongst everyone else, the man who _begged on his grave_ to not be dead, doesn't want him back... Then how would everyone else react?

His steps were furtive, slow but evenly paced. It stopped when a black car trailed him. 197 TPH. No doubt it's one of Mycroft's. The car wont stop unless he does, because that's just how it works between them. And as expected, the car braked when Sherlock turned to the car window, face blank and if it weren't for the dried blood on his nose and lips, some would say he looked rid of life.

One of the car window rolled down to reveal a very smug looking Mycroft, face a mix of pride and sympathy when he made eye contact with Sherlock.  
"Didn't work out well, did it?" he asked with a sigh.  
"If this is just an attempt to rub the incident to my face, then I'll just go. No use talking to you," Sherlock muttered in a short breath, the whole sentence rushed but lack of any of the usual weisenheimers. He was already stepping back from the car and about to turn back to the length of the sidewalk when Mycroft opened the car door.  
"Get in, Sherlock. I know you were pushed down to the floor, and from your stance it's obvious that some of the wound might've been affected. Just, get it treated properly this time," he practically pleaded for Sherlock to do as he says. People who knows Sherlock would be well aware that he doesn't really like being treated by doctors, no matter how severe he was beaten, unless he couldn't treat it himself and a treatment is needed. But even that would cause a fuss in the hospital. Sherlock begrudgingly stepped in the car, but not making any more eye contact with anyone. He felt like this was defeat for him-not being able to do things on his own. The whole time in the car, the only voices that echo in the hollow vehicle was of Mycroft's. Asking, reassuring, and trying to pry any information out of Sherlock. Basically anything to get Sherlock, that includes annoying him.

The first word he uttered since being in the car, was when the slow, barely subtle gasp of the private doctor was heard from behind him. He just don't get why they need to be so surprised when they treat a lot of patients, mostly bloody work. A simple criss cross on his back, and some burn marks shouldn't be new to them. There were two deep lines of wound on his back, and too fresh to handle a great pressure on it. The nurses and doctor assigned to handle Sherlock practically had to peel off the shirt off of Sherlock because the wound started to excrete both blood and pus from the lack of care of the wound. Sherlock might've not seen it so he wouldn't really realize how bad it was, but eventhough the liquid release wasn't much, it wasn't a pleasant sight.

It wasn't much, but the doctor at least managed to clean the wound, apply every required ointment on it and patch it up with a few medical gauze under a bandage across his torso. But for further care, he would need assistance. Mycroft urged Sherlock to ask for Mrs. Hudson's help, or Lestrade's, because they're the closest and the more open options. And Sherlock just shrugged at the long explanations, mumbling a half-hearted agreement under his breath.

"Will you be okay?" Mycroft asked slowly, cautiously. He was worried, definitely worried because Sherlock just doesn't seem much like himself now. It's alarming.  
"Why wouldn't I be?" he replied with a forced grin, ones that daredevils would often wear after a flawless jump to prove people wrong.  
"Just make sure that wound is taken care of. It would take weeks to heal and months to properly disappear or form a painless scar"  
"Yes, _mom_. Is that it? Because I think you held me captive long enough here" his voice had the old childish behavior back, his technique to get people to get things done quicker because the longer he used the tone, the more annoying it gets. "Oh and can I have morphine? For the pain?" Lies. Partly a lie. Or technically the truth. It was for pain, both physical and emotional. Numbing. Perfect. All of them in the room was hesitant, but then they prescribed a very controlled amount for Sherlock, and Mycroft was sure to have surveillance on his usage. Seeing him in this state to ask for morphine was something to keep an eye on. Danger night could be any night if it's Sherlock. When they eventually agreed on the dose and had the documents for his discharge signed, Sherlock was unusually giddy about going back home to his flat. But Mycroft knew better why he was excited to be in his own privacy, away from general sight and away from naggings of anyone ever. Especially now he got his hands on his addictions. God knows how many more he hid in his house. Mycroft had dropped his younger brother off to 221B with a sigh, warning Mrs. Hudson too about a possible usage for the week, or month, and also about the scars.

"Oh Sherlock..." he sighed, resigned, when he saw the man walking back through the front door, greeted by a concerned Mrs. Hudson. He just hoped for the best for his little brother.

* * *

On the other side of London, John and Mary arrived to their shared home, both of them clearly in disagreement of what happened earlier. Face either full of disgust or disappointment.

"What was that, hm?" Mary questioned John's behavior, and she will all over again unless she get the answer she so clearly wants.  
"Like I said, I was-"  
"You were depressed for losing him! You were devastated like there was no tomorrow and now he's back, this is the treatment you're giving him? _Real_ charming, John!"  
"He faked his death! Who is even in the right mind would do that?!"  
"But he's back now. For you!" Mary lowers her tone, trying to shift her own mood to be of comfort and more positive. "You owe him an apology, John"  
"I do not. He owes me one," denial for defeat. Typical.  
"He did apologize. You didn't listen," Mary gave a small smile before giving him a pat on the shoulder. "Go check on him later, John".

Half past one, and John was still up. Awake and reminiscing. Was he being a little shit to Sherlock earlier? That bastard deserved it. John just felt like he was being played with when he grieved for a living human being. But Sherlock had listened to his little speech, to his plea for him to not be actually dead. In a way, Sherlock was granting his one wish before he left to god knows where. Is that apology-worthy? It's debatable. It's hard for John to actually decide if it's worth it or not. But at least he could offer a little visit tomorrow, like Mary said. John felt very lucky to have Mary, because like this situation, she sees ahead when he's stuck in the past. And she's also his future wife, is she? Will Sherlock coming back disturb this future?

He just let out a sigh, thinking maybe the whole thought processes could continue tomorrow, when he's well rested. The night's been overwhelming, and he was sure it wasn't just for him alone.


	3. Chapter 3

For most people, the rays of sunshine peeking through the window and reflecting onto the wooden floors are the best part of waking up, accompanied by the smell of morning tea. But for Sherlock, it felt... blank. He knew there's feelings about waking up somewhere but above it all is a strong hollow feeling.It's unsettling. A part of him was relieved to wake up in comfort of a bed after for so long. But another part of him felt heavy, demotivated of everything. Like there's nothing he felt like he can do to perk up his own mood. And when he tried to figure out why, last night's incident just flashed in his mind. He regret thinking about it but no can do now.

In a distance, he heard the familiar hoot that Mrs. Hudson always does. At least that made him smile a bit and decide to get up. She was the person that truly stuck with Sherlock, like a mother figure too. And so Sherlock went out to present himself in a shabby fashion-hair ruffled and dressing gown loosely hanging from one shoulder. Mrs. Hudson was with her uplifting smile and her giddy pitch, offering the morning tea to Sherlock.  
"How'd you sleep, dear?" she asked quite happily, just excited to see Sherlock back where he belongs, and not in some scruffy back alley or running as a fugitive in the woods.  
"Best sleep in a long time," he gave a sincere, but controlled smile. He wasn't lying. The sleep was the best in months, but it doesn't mean he wasn't aching or having nightmares. It was still better than ever. Mrs. Hudson sat opposite to him on the unused armchair, chatting away with Sherlock. She missed him dearly, and she won't miss the chance to be more talkative anymore. 

As ever, the landlady urged Sherlock to eat more, but unlike in the past, she urged because she was worried. Sherlock looked thin, _too thin_ for him. Him being more fit isn't a problem but he was severely deprived and it showed on his body and his skin. Speaking of which-  
"Your brother told me I should be changing your bandage?"  
"Oh that... Don't bother, Mrs. Hudson. I can manage," he said and averted eye contact. Mrs. Hudson just frowned at the response, finding it a bit childish and also unreasonable.  
"Don't try to push me away now, young man. Go and clean up so I can put on fresh bandages on you," she said firmly and put aside the food and cups aside, pulling Sherlock towards the bathroom. She reminded him to just come to the living room straight after for her to try and treat the wounds. Worried as she is, she needed to help because no one seemed to be around to do so. Sherlock complied nevertheless, intentionally taking more time in the shower than he needed to, which was already so long. In addition of taking off the bandage stuck to the wounds and having to be extra cautious with it, it was already taking ages. Mrs. Hudson didn't complain anyway. She spent the time to clean up the flat a bit for being abandoned for too long.

* * *

That morning, Mary had reminded John again about visiting Sherlock. And this time, the reminder worked because he felt so bloody guilty. He was being too harsh to Sherlock, to the closest friend he had ever got the chance to have, and then he pushed the man away out of spite. John gave a quick kiss to Mary, reassuring her that he's off to Baker Street, before eventually leaving in a cab. It's a decent distance to the old flat, or else he'd cycle over. 

In the cab, though, he was revising in his head of what he should say. He didn't know how bad Sherlock had taken his words last night, but given what he knew of Sherlock, that man wouldn't take any of that too seriously. He doesn't really work like a human, honestly. It's all about work for him, and about being smart and right. Quite repetitive but that's how it is. After what seemed like ages, the cab eventually stopped in front of the godforsaken flat, eeriely familiar. He tipped the driver before stepping out, standing awkwardly outside the well-known front door. He felt like a hesitant client. Should he go back? This felt wrong but he owe Sherlock a proper apology and they should have a proper talk if he lets him to. A few moments passed of him debating with himself in his head, his hand fiddles on the key of the flat. Thank god Mrs. Hudson insisted him to keep the key, or else he'd look like an idiot knocking on the door and possibly not getting a reply.

He pushed the key through the hole, opening the door in a swift push. It was silent downstairs but he heard murmurs upstairs, maybe of the landlady and the detective, but it sounds like only Mrs. Hudson talking to herself. He swallowed back every words he had, suddenly doubtful of everything. But he made his way to the steps anyway, avoiding the creaky step. And alas it's true once he reached the first floor and gave a few light knocks, that only Mrs. Hudson was there. And she was so pleasant to see John. Maybe she didn't know what happened last night.  
"Oh John! I thought I'd never see you again! Did you propose to her yet?" Shit. He forgot he told Mrs. Hudson.  
"Oh I kind of got interrupted while I was proposing. Where's Sherlock?" he tried changing the topic because he's there to talk to Sherlock. Not talk about Mary.  
"He's taking a shower. I'm just waiting on him because I needed to change his bandage," she said plainly, but the happy voice still present.  
"Bandage? He's... hurt?" he asked slowly, not knowing where this would lead to. He's just curious.  
"Yeah. From his time away? I haven't seen it but Mycroft said it's bad" she muttered with a slow tongue tick, like of a mother when finding out her child fell off the bike. _Now_ , John is really curious. Sherlock didn't really explain what he did during the two years. Just that Moriarty had to be stopped. But that's as far as he said. No details. John sat down on his old armchair, making himself cozy and telling Mrs. Hudson that he'll be waiting for Sherlock, which she agreed to without a second thought.

Poor Mrs. Hudson. She doesn't know how much tension would soon to come from that simple approval.

Minutes after John arrived, they really thought Sherlock just locked himself in but then they hear the click from the bathroom door of it opening, they both simultaneously turned towards the small corridor. And they set eyes on a partly frightened and shocked Sherlock.  
"Why is he here?" he asked, panic slightly in his voice. The towel he had draped on his shoulder was shifted to cover more of it, knowing one or two wounds were long enough to show on his shoulder.  
"John is here to visit you, dear. Now come here, let me treat your wounds" she gushed Sherlock and motioned to the empty client chair in front of her. Sherlock wanted to refuse, and just delay the treatment to when John goes home. Spare himself the conversation. But then again, he could rub the guilt on John's face. At this point, he was so tired of everything, and wanted the bandage to wrap him tight, tighter than any hugs anyone would give him. Sherlock maintained a sharp eye contact with John as he walked over to Mrs. Hudson, sitting down and his back facing the lady.

Like what happened in the hospital, both their reaction was more or less the same. A gasp and a slow whimper. And Sherlock just rolled his eyes at this. Pathetic. The wound looked more prominent now after all the ointments were put. The colour of red more vibrant from it drying, and the outline of every scar and torture is obvious since it was cleaned. A lot of whip marks and also knife tracks. A few cigarette burns and something unmistakenably like a heated metal used to mark meats. The worst part is that most of them are fairly fresh.

Sherlock was smug, emotionless, just picking the end of the towels he had. While Mrs. Hudson was near tears wrapping him up. When she was done with that, she gave a lovely, feather-light touch to his cheek and smiled, thinking it might give him something positive for the day. And only when Mrs. Hudson walked down the stairs, John eventually said something to Sherlock, first time in the day.  
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, pitiful and dissatisfied.  
"Why are you here anyway?" he avoided the question entirely, and changed the direction of conversation. Pointless to talk about the injuries. If John were to only be nice to him after he saw the scars then what's the point? It'll just be misguided guilt and a false mask.  
"To say sorry," he replied, voice small and regretful especially after seeing what he did.  
"Oh are you?" he stood up from the chair and faced John, looking down at the doctor. At his friend. "Or is this just another unwarranted guilt and misplaced emotion, like what happened last night?"  
"Sherlock, I was just in shock,"  
"So was I, to know my welcoming gift was a punch and insults,"  
"Sorry but I-"  
"No. You told me that I always wanted to win in an argument without you realizing you're always doing the same! For once, stop this. I'm tired. I'm going to rest in bed," Sherlock was frowning and just pure rage and disappointment across his face. He wanted to let the apology sink in but he felt like a complete and utter trash for coming back to someone who's moved on and now is planning to marry another person.  
"Can you just wait?"  
"I waited for two years, only to come back to you moving on, to another person. A woman. Mary. And completely dejected me last night. What do you want me to wait more for?"  
"I don't know. But just hear me out, will you? You were gone, and Mary was there for me at my lowest. Everyone helped me moved on, and she was the best thing to ever happened to me," at this point Sherlock just scoffed and about to turned back to his bedroom, feeling like his ears might bleed from hearing all of these. How come Sherlock, even on his lowest point, could still hold onto the feelings for John, strived to come back to him, but John can't? Did he really think Sherlock had it any easier? Every mission, every location, he wished it'd be his last with a bullet through his heart but no. He had John in his mind and struggled to survive.

"I learned to move on, Sherlock. Maybe you should too," and that was John's goodbye before he left Sherlock alone.

Easy said for someone who people favours because they're not weird.


	4. Chapter 4

Going back for a second visit directly the day after seemed a bit too forceful in John's mind. So he let both Sherlock and himself breathe some fresh air away from each other. But he never expected the other party to literally get away far from him.

John probably took more time than necessary to step back to 221B to give even Mrs. Hudson a visit, because only five days later he dropped by Baker Street after work. It was fairly late in the evening, and without looking at his watch, it probably was a little past 7pm when he arrived the doorstep. The sky isn't showing yet the hints of the light blue disappearing, and for John it was somewhat metaphorical of how the light shimmer of hope isn't yet to fade and be blown away by mere slip of the tongue.

When he pushed the door open, he noticed that Mrs. Hudson was away, probably with her friends playing bingo or poker somewhere she never ever mentioned before to the boys. But the whole building was strangely... still. John just brushed the thought off as maybe from not being there for such a long time. Maybe the air changed in the place, a bit of a foreign feeling to him. The building wasn't always occupied anyway. He made his way up two steps at a time, showing a bit of excitement to go and meet Sherlock, proving to him that hey, it's just like the good old days. A whole script was already prepared in his mind-about work, about the newest case Lestrade had been fussing on, about Mary, about the wedding, and about a dog he's about to get because he knew how Sherlock loves dogs even when he wont admit it. All those just flew out of the window of his mind when he saw how the door of their... well, _Sherlock's_ flat was left ajar very much carelessly. Sherlock isn't one to appreciate the lack of privacy so he always keep the door completely shut, almost at all times.

He took a breather, not knowing what to expect. And he didn't really expect otherwise when he pushed the door open to find the room empty. Rid of any life. All the stuff are there, messy as always but... lifeless. Maybe he went out for a case, and was rushing. John instinctively walked around the room, tracing everything with his eyes, trying to deduce terribly what Sherlock might have been doing. But most of what he gathered was that, not much had been at all touched. Let alone moved or used. The most used item was probably the teacup Mrs. Hudson used to make his tea in but that cup was dry. Sherlock's experiment table wasn't filled with any new projects. He touched the familiar leather chair but it wasn't even warm. _Where did Sherlock ran off to?_

Like any rational person, he took his time to process all of what he saw, forming his own conclusion. And yet all the conclusions he made was to give himself a reassuring pat in the back. 'Sherlock's is on a case in other part of London', 'He's spending his nights at Bart's for something', 'Maybe he's in the yard to look over cold cases Lestrade handed over'. All to avoid thinking the worst case scenario. And god knows how long he spent dwelling in his own mind, because he heard the front door closed. First person he thought of that went through that black door was Sherlock. His Sherlock. _The_ Sherlock. And he called over for him. The reply though? Not Sherlock.

"John is that you?" the soft, soothing voice of the landlady echoed through the corridor and heard up the stairs. John heard the sound of rustling plastic downstairs and he assumed his presence might've rushed the lady into putting her stuff away. She came up minutes later, face despondent. And that made John's stomach twist inside. _What's going on?  
_"Mrs. Hudson, what's wrong? What's with the long face?" he asked, partly joking, because he hated how the atmosphere just shifted.  
"You're here a bit late. Sherlock left already," she replied with a slow, cautious tone.  
"When?"  
"A few days ago. His brother picked him up,"  
"Where to?"  
"Didn't say,"  
"Will he be back soon?" and the conversation was left with silence in the air. All Mrs. Hudson had to offer was a shrug and a headshake. She had no clue either. And all that _John_ could offer was a sigh. Does this have anything to do with him? Because he sure does feel guilty. Mrs. Hudson sat him down and offered to make tea for the man. Probably talk over a few things over tea.

Mrs. Hudson sat down on Sherlock's chair, opposite of John. And John somewhat doesn't like seeing someone else on that chair but Sherlock, but Mrs. Hudson deserve a comfortable seat and not the hard wooden client chair. It's far more appropriate. She thought that John at least deserved to know what she does.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't really having the best time back in London. The scene at the restaurant had made it to the media, and the people who felt as betrayed as John weren't exactly keeping their mouths shut. 221B isn't a hard place to find, and neither was he. A lot of curses and a lot of praises came to him. It was overwhelming. Especially for him. And the only person there for him at the moment is Mrs. Hudson, constantly checking up on him, making him tea and keeping him distracted from the hassle of the street. She knew how hard it was for Sherlock to keep a steady face, constantly holding a mask over himself, when in reality the mask is cracking. But given that, she was still surprised when Sherlock told her about his plans for the coming future. It would help him maintain the mask without having emotional connection damaging it. And he explicitly said that he'd only call or send letters to Mrs. Hudson. _Only_ her. 

"Mycroft offered me the usual job position in the MI6 for me. Technically I never left or resigned, but now my name's back in the team for larger operations,"  
"Oh Sherlock, but you just came back from those two years. Are you sure you want to go?" her voice falters with fear and concern, not unusual for a lovely and caring person as she is.  
"London isn't the same anymore, Mrs. Hudson. What's the point of staying when home doesn't feel much like one?" he said with a smile, a smile desperate for her to try and understand what he meant. It's not the same for him anymore because he was dead. And he wished he truly was. Because that would be a better memory than having to return knowing John moved on from him, and possibly still hated him a little about the falsified death. Mrs. Hudson's forehead just creased more, growing more concerned and pitiful towards the man he knew since his worse days.  
"Will you be still living here on occasions?"  
"I don't know. The future remains mysterious. Who knows what will happen," a pause. Reminiscing the risk he's taking and the fate he's expected to accept. "I _will_ be writing a letter to you when I can, though. Can't have you missing out on what I'm doing," he said with a spark of joy in his voice. But the motherly instinct in her knows more than to ignore the hint of sadness that comes with the perky voice.  
"That's sweet of you. What about J-"  
"Just you," he said quickly, not letting her finish the sentence for he knew what she will say. He gave a pleading smile, and she responded with an understanding one.

They spent the rest of the day talking about everything else, anything to not look back at the harsh reality that's been set firmly in the background. But mostly Mrs. Hudson did the talking and Sherlock would just squeeze in the little tell tale with a sassy remark or his own joke. _This_ domesticity was what he wanted. But he probably would like to keep it as to only on important occasions, like her birthday and Christmas day. He will make sure he can visit then. But he didn't tell the missus this. Because worst case scenario is that he wont be around to even visit. That'll just break her.

The day after, just before Sherlock left the premise, he had given a bouquet of light pink azalea flowers with a white in the centre, just beautifully merging colours, to Mrs. Hudson. 'A goodbye gift', he said. And she tearfully accepted it, and said she insisted a hug and a kiss on the cheek before he leave. How can he say no? He let that happen with the same reassuring smile that he used the day before when saying he was sure he wanted to go on with his life as an agent. Mycroft offered him the spot way back when he was in his twenties. He's now just revisiting old forts. Nothing new. No biggie.

Just before he went to hop in the car with a case of clothes and necessity tools, he went to give another bouquet of the same flowers to Mrs. Hudson, less flowers in this one though. Making it look less lively, and a bit empty. Both were wrapped in a way that visualizes and represents the Victorian era for some reason. He explained to Mrs. Hudson, just briefly, enough for her to get the idea for the second bouquet.

* * *

John was awestruck after Mrs. Hudson explained about Sherlock leaving for missions after missions. And that forcing Mycroft to tell him of Sherlock's whereabout would be near to pointless, because Sherlock wont just be working under Mycroft alone, but the general British authorities. John felt like he was letting go one side of the rope, of the bond they both had. At first he thought Sherlock was the one to forcefully cut the rope off, and letting the rope hang tense single-handedly by John. But he never really registered the fact that even when falling off the rooftop, Sherlock was trying to keep his hand on it, and most probably also when he was off in some dungeon being tortured for information. A part of him, deep inside, was still blaming Sherlock for what he did, but it's not as overpowering anymore.

Mrs. Hudson excused herself for a bit, and returned with a bouquet of the azalea, still fresh because Sherlock asked her to nurture both bouquets. Keep it alive, and for Mrs. Hudson, it's just her way of reassuring herself Sherlock was as alive as the beautiful flowers.  
"Sherlock told me to give you this. He gave one to me too," she didn't mention about hers being more full of flowers, though. Might break something inside him if she did. The flowers exchanged hands and John just gloomily looked at the flowers, feeling it being heavy when in reality it wasn't. It was the weight of guilt and separation that add up to his hand feeling heavy from the flowers.  
"I didn't know why he chose these flowers. It's a bit hard to find in florists. Should've just gave me sunflowers or lilies and I would take care of it just the same," she continued, muttering the word in a confused but appreciative tone. Like ones they'd use when finding some efforts too far-fetched or if someone does to extra length for no reason.

Somehow, just somehow, those little quirky comment from the landlady had brought up a thought in John's mind. A very specific colour, a specific flower, and a specific dressing. He remembered Sherlock once muttered to him about the Victorian flower language. Maybe a small part of Sherlock had hoped John remembered about the short lesson on it, and he did. God he did, and he was utterly glad he did. Mrs. Hudson was a tad confused on the sudden light of realization on John's face, and the immediate action of him going towards Sherlock's handwritten note about the flowers. He flipped through the pages until he saw a scribbly outline of a flower closely resembles the Azalea, and sure enough, the title confirmed it.

**_Azalea_**

_Common definition : "Take care of yourself for me"  
Other definitions (vary from places) : Temperance, fragile passion, Chinese symbol of womanhood_

That was as far as it was for Azalea flower, unfortunately. But it started to get clear in his mind. He eventually found more explanations further in the leather bound notebook about colours. And above all the explanations, he emphasized about how if the colour is familiar to the flower, it could just mean it's coincidentally paired or it meant that the message one is sending through the flower should be commonly recognized, as if it had existed for a long while. John sighed before he proceeded reading the texts, trying to make sense of everything.

**_Pink_**

_Note : For it is quite similar to red flowers, some people don't have much distinction between the two and use it as each other's substitute._

_Definition : Love, longing (more common).  
__Other meanings include : Happiness, gentleness and femininity (common reason used in Mother's Day bouquet-to emphasize the motherly nature of one woman)_  
  
  
"Well if it's Sherlock, then he likes to have his messages directly implied..." he mumbled under his breath, and Mrs. Hudson was peeking at the book from his side, also putting the pieces together. And she was a bit disappointed in herself for not understanding the Victorian dressing of the flowers to mean that it was supposed to be in the Victorian flower language. To take care of themselves while he was away, because he'll miss them, and definitely still loves them from the depth of his heart, because both of them were the ones to know he have one. And it beats for them, and for his passion.

John however still calmed her down, saying how Sherlock was always unpredictable his whole life. And he will continuously be unpredictable, sending cryptic messages every now and then. And maybe come back to life like he did a week ago. John felt like he wasn't privileged enough to kind of shed a tear or feel sad, because in a way, he played a part in scaring Sherlock away from the comfort of 221B. But the least he can do was make it up to him by leaving open arms for him if he were to come back again. Resurrect in any given time. And hopefully this time, he wont get a punch in the face. They both knew Sherlock couldn't walk away just like that. He just needs time for himself and they respect the decision. And they respect it by not being stuck in their emotions, and to talk about the brighter memories together, hoping they'd have the opportunity for more of that again in the future.

And the more logical thing to do now, while he's not around, was have a proper toast to him. 

"To the man who never fails to amaze, and never fails to protect. And for every sacrifice, for he shall be remembered" and for the message of the flower, shall they keep the promise.


End file.
